


Grinchmas

by princessoftheworlds



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Grinch!Bucky, M/M, Soft Stucky Week 2016, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-09-09 16:41:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8899924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princessoftheworlds/pseuds/princessoftheworlds
Summary: Bucky is possibly, most certainly, a Grinch about Christmas. Luckily, Steve Rogers is here to prove him wrong.





	

James Buchanan Barnes is most definitely _not_ a Grinch; he swears he’s not. He just _very_ intensely dislikes the fluffy snow outside of the Brooklyn coffee shop he’s sitting in, the bright and festive decorations that cause the shop to seem more suffocating than usual, the sickeningly-sweet couples canoodling in the corners and enjoying paper cups of hot chocolate, the loud and cheery children biting into their peppermint-flavored treats.

Bucky Barnes does not _hate_ Christmas; he simply has some strong negative feelings towards the holiday that can be attributed to several years of failed requests of the mythic Santa and several relationships that have ended around the holidays because some people simply cannot put up with a man who refuses to support the spirit of American capitalism.

All these pent-up emotions lead Bucky to scratch out a very simple, elementary couplet in the notebook that has been laying open on his table for several hours now, because, apparently, having published a few awarding-winning novels by twenty-five does not guarantee that Bucky will always have something to headstart his next novel.

**Roses are red, violets are blue.**

**I hate Christmas; fuck this too.**

It is only upon reaching his not-so-shitty apartment that Bucky realizes that he has left his notebook at the coffee shop and slumps into his navy bedspread, groaning dramatically.

XX

This is what Bucky finds when he returns to the coffee shop the next day:

**Roses are red; violets are blue.**

**I hate Christmas; fuck this too.**

_These feelings are antagonistic._

_Christmas is not so bad if you ignore the capitalistic fads._

_(I don’t know about you, but Christmas can be loved.)_

He chuckles, a rare smile breaking out across his lips, penning a response and leaving the notebook behind intentionally.

**You believe you know best. Let’s put this to the test.**

**I dare you to prove that Christmas ain’t so blue.**

XX

**You believe you know best. Let’s put this to the test.**

**I dare you to prove that Christmas ain’t so blue.**

_I will try, you know I will, to show you that Christmas is great, Bill._

_My earliest Christmas memory is putting up the tree,_

_Only my ma and me, but we were happy._

**That proves nothing much, but that everyone needs a mother’s touch.**

**Maybe you can do better, since this attempt is as great as an ugly Christmas sweater.**

**I give you another try, though you may ask why.**

**You have got me intrigued, and my argument is becoming fatigued.**

**(That was the worst rhyme ever. My name isn’t Bill; it’s Bucky.)**

_What are you, some kind of writer? Your poems aren’t that much biter (geddit? Better?)._

_The spirit of Christmas cannot be proved through simple rhyme;_

_Give me some of your time._

_(Nice to meet you, Bucky. My name is Steve.)_

**Hello, Steve, though now you have me peeved.**

**Yes, I write. Some say my novels give them quite a fright.**

**With rhymes like these, I know I ain’t good, but lemme show you better as I should.**

**You may have my time as I am reusing your rhyme.**

**Fuck this shit; I am failing my wit.**

**I know you come to this coffee shop frequently, more likely in the mornings, since I am always here in the afternoons and never see you.**

_Have you admitted defeat, then, Bucky? Because your poems were quiet fucky._

_Yes, I’m here everyday at seven to pick up coffee before work. My shift ends at six. Meet you here?_

**I will have to check my schedule. Kidding.**

**Being self-employed gives you great freedom. Yeah, I’ll be here at six tomorrow.**

XX

Bucky skips his daily afternoon trips to the coffee shop in favor of waiting until the evening. Upon arriving in the shop, he grabs a pumpkin spice latte and swirls around, searching for “Steve.”

Finally, after a few minutes, Bucky spots the familiar grey leather cover of his notebook resting on a table situated between two armchairs hidden in the corner.

One armchair is already occupied.

Bucky makes his way to the corner, setting his drink on the table, and drops into the plush seat before glancing up to meet a startling cornflower pair of eyes that likely belong to Steve.

The gorgeous eyes are set into a face with a strong jaw and fair skin that is flushed pink from the heat of the drink he is currently sipping. A mop of sunshine-blond hair parted neatly only adds to the fact that Bucky is sure that he is staring at a man straight only a Greek myth, with the oversized sweater that man is wearing doing nothing to mask his sculpted body.

“Hi!” the man says, smiling brightly. “You must be Bucky.”

Bucky, still starting, can only nods in agreement. Slowly, he recovers from his embarrassed self, relying on his sparkling wit to guide him through this conversation with this very attractive man. “And you are the man determined to prove that Christmas isn’t a capitalistic excuse.”

“I can,” Steve tells him determinedly, “and I will.”

“Really?” Bucky asks skeptically. “’Cause you’ve done a bang-up job so far.”

“That doesn’t count.” The widened eyes and the adorable pout give Steve the overall appearance of a kicked puppy and leaves Bucky with the impression. that it is quite difficult to win an argument with this man.

“Fine,” Bucky admits, grinding his teeth. “It doesn’t count. But I’m not about to go prancing ‘round Brooklyn with a man I met ten minutes ago. You could be a serial killer who lures in cynical non-believers of Christmas.”

Steve rears his head back and lets out a full-bellied laugh, which only serves to make him more attractive to Bucky.

Is it possible that this man is even interested in Bucky, because he swears that Steve had checked him out while he was sitting down.

“I swear I’m not a serial killer.” Steve sips his drink slowly. “Get to know before I prove everything you know about Christmas wrong. My name is Steve Roger, I’m twenty-four, I majored in art in college and now have an internship at SHIELD gallery, and I like cats.”

Bucky gasps dramatically, shocked, and scoots his armchair away from the table. “You like cats?” he asks in a quiet, serious whisper.

“Yeah?” the other man replies in confusion.

“No. Nah uh. There is no way you will ever be right about Christmas. People who like cats have terrible  personalities.” Bucky shakes his head in mock-dismay.

“There is absolutely nothing wrong with cats,” Steve says defensively.

Bucky raises an eyebrow challengingly. “That’s what my last  boyfriend said before he broke up with me with and called me a Grinch.” Carefully, he observes Steve’s reaction to his last statement.

Steve doesn’t flinch. “Well, you are,” he protests. “Who doesn’t like Christmas?”

Bucky smirks. “I don’t.”

“You will,” Steve declares passionately. “If I got Sam to love Christmas, I can convince you.”

“Sam’s a boyfriend or girlfriend?” Bucky’s just fishing for answers now.

Steve smiles mysteriously. “Neither. I would mind a boy or girl, though, to spend the holidays with. Most of my friends are out of town or travelling this year.”

The man appears so crestfallen that Bucky blurts out, “You can spend your Christmas with me?”

“What?”

“Nah, ignore me. Why should you spend Christmas with a complete stranger?” Bucky says, sighing.

But Steve is beginning to grin, humming thoughtfully. “Why not? I have nowhere to go, and I assume part of the reason you don’t like Christmas is that you have nowhere to go either. This way, we will both have company, and I can prove to you that Christmas spirit does exist. Besides, you already know who I am. Tell me about yourself.”

Bucky groans defeatedly at Steve’s defiant yet expectant expression. “My name is James Buchanan Barnes-”

Steve snickers.

“Shut up, will ya? So, my parents were a little obsessed with American history. Big deal?” Bucky shakes his head. “Just call me Bucky.”

Steve snickers again. “Really? Bucky? That sounds like a rabbit’s name.”

“It’s a childhood nickname,” Bucky snaps, though he is actually smiling. “Blame my little sister.” He continues on, “I’m a writer. I hate everything about the world before my first cup of coffee in the morning. I’m twenty-five, and I only come to this coffee shop out of habit.”

“Out of habit?” Steve asks curiously, eyes twinkling.

“My friend Natasha dragged me here everyday for a year, because it was between her workplace and my apartment.” Bucky shrugs. “Guess I never fell out of the habit.”

“Why don’t you like Christmas?” Steve’s question is sudden and turns Bucky’s mind in a different direction.

“Huh?” He takes a deep breath and a moment before replying. “Nothing truly terrible ever happened to me on Christmas. I mean, I guess you were right, that I never really had anyone to celebrate Christmas with. My parents died when I was seventeen, before then, we never celebrated Christmas traditionally. Now, my sister Becca is always busy with college or travelling the world with her friends.”

“Oh.” Steve’s responding smile is slightly sad and watery. “My ma loved Christmas. She and I celebrated Christmas every year until she died five years ago. Since then, I’ve celebrated with my friends, but it’s not the same.”

Bucky chuckles dryly. “Look at us, bonding over our shitty Christmas experiences. No wonder I dislike the holiday.”

Steve begins to rub his hands together diabolically. “You’ll love Christmas after you spend the holiday with me.”

Bucky attempts to ignore the _sorta_ innuendo Steve unintentionally while feeling like he’s staring at the jaws of death while he watches Steve plan.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr @princess-of-the-worlds


End file.
